February 8, 2010

1.

by jhon baker

 I’ve opted to eliminate references to living people when they arise in my poetry – at least when they arrive unexpectedly and are being shown in a truthful but painful light. I’ve no interest in relieving myself of pain or memory discomfort at the expense of another even when it is justified. I tend toward the teaching: do nothing now that the wise would later censure – and I think the wise would censure causing hurt reciprocally.

1.
for __________

the sun coming through the window has
             always surprised me.
the dreams I wake from and the
quietnesses of the house, surprise me.

my youth has always surprised me.
the length and brevity of night or the onset
            of dawn’s intrusion, love itself
has always surprised me.

the suddenness of beauty and breath
have always surprised me.
that we are still children too young for death
           with bones too old
for roller coasters, surprise me.

night only now and after dinner already.
this tiredness and joy of invention
     surprise me.
this poem, borne out of your lies has
wholly surprised me.

–  I wrote this

Tags:
February 7, 2010

a poem of no consequence and without intention

by jhon baker
it’s amazing how retyping has altered the following poem. I completely altered a verse and found two copy errors that would have otherwise gone unnoticed had I cut and copied. Having the errors would have been embarrassing enough but some of the original was deeply flawed as well. It is a better work now I think and you will have nothing to compare it to.
This is generally how my poetry progresses from first draft to final, however, once final I try to not go back, so to say, but now that I am retyping older finished works for this journal I am having to. It is making me a better poet – or maybe not but the drugs and  delusions aren’t either – or are they?
relative day  (a poem of no consequence)
daises 
lilacs
hyacinth
wild grown purple orchids
and aphids
concrete
wrought iron benches
400lb ashtrays
pebble garbage cans
bleeder hose irrigation
garden
open sky
thirty Mexican laborers
two white foremen
ants cavalcade
on abandoned pastries
old men on benches
cooing pigeons
young sleeping dogs
trees already blooming
white
brick paved walkway
impeccable
standing
one dozen half open benches
caramel tinted soda in bottles
sun’s up
fifty-three degrees
daises 
lilacs
hyacinth
wild grown purple orchids
and aphids
relative day
– I wrote this.
as another example of a poem that has altered a lot from the simple act of retyping it somewhere and having to rework the wording to express my intention is a poem I first put on facebook only to have my errors pointed out, painful to my heart but necessary, and then being told a word was unnecessary. Of course I argued and foolishly did not listen but privately I altered the poem as suggested and found she was right, thank you Heather. What really buggered me about this one is that I had tried this poem written exactly as it is here before deciding on a different version which took away the essence for a mnemonic device that didn’t work anyway.  here is that poem in it’s final form…
without intention
your beauty reminds me 
I am living.
your touch reminds me
I must breathe.
your sighs take 
my body to sleep,
your very being resting
heart’s beat to steady.
aroused by your silence, we
let love awaken with
morning breath.
we, like children, laugh
under covers in darkness
pretending we are alone,
untouchable, cradling
the others infinite fragility.
I arise to know you.
I arise to know these depths
with atonement;
depths without failure,
I arise to know.
your beauty reminds me 
I am living.
your touch reminds me
I must breathe.
your sighs take 
my body to sleep,
your very being resting
heart’s beat to steady.

– I wrote this

Tags:
February 6, 2010

Shipping and Handling

by jhon baker

Really tired at the time I write this and I think that I could rename this blog/journal – the tired associations of J. Baker.
I believe that I am going lie down to read TIME, Robert Gates is on the cover so it may be an informative read as this is someone I don’t know a lot about and I am betting no-one I know does which is a shame as he is the Defense Secretary.From what I know already I would make decisions differently [about defense] but I wonder if I knew what they/he [Gates] knew, would my decisions be the same as theirs or now? Ignorance is not bliss, it is ignorance. Bliss is bliss and I’ve no idea about it at all.

shipping and handling

  – deleted after writer actually thought about it
  – a little more while no longer under the
  – influene of whatever it was he/she
  – was on that day/hour.
  –
  – thank you for your interest.

          – I wrote this

February 5, 2010

Words are dry, meaningless

by jhon baker

Insomnia sufferers of the world unite, or at least get together as to not be bored in the wee hours of morning.
I’ve “suffered” from this malady for as long as I can remember, there must have been a time where sleep came easy and I awoke rested and spry, wasn’t there? In addition there are many poems that begin with the words – can’t sleep – or are about not being able to sleep. There are many tricks to falling under the spell of hypnos and with the exception of drinking warm milk, I’ve tried them all and most seem to work for a few days but all eventually stop working. The only cure it seems was to drink copious amounts of Jack or Johnny Walker or SoCo, those who knew me then will advise against this tactic tho especially as I am not even sure that I even slept, there are only periods of time where I remember nothing and awoke in places I didn’t remember being and all that implies.
I’ve also written profuse amounts of poetry and stories when I should have been dreaming, I would say it is a good time to write but there is always a lot of revision to clean up the mess that was the night before so I prefer to write in the day from when I start going on to when I finish while sometimes stopping for lunch or love.

words are dry, meaningless

words are dry,
expression faceless.
the ladybugs came here to die
on my window;
baking in the sun.

a hundred portraits
unhung,
composing city life.

walks along South Michigan
in Chicago;
children think I am homeless
and dirty.

find Buddha in the patrons .
find Buddha in the hall.
find Buddha on the front steps
of MOMA.
je suis beau!
find Buddha in me!

on these steps I ask for a light;
and I am
not thinking that I’m going to write this
a year later, or more, sitting at
my desk. where
ladybugs come to die
on my window.